


Whumptober: Stabbing

by whatsanapocalae



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Death, Eye Trauma, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-29 05:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20958239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsanapocalae/pseuds/whatsanapocalae
Summary: Today's prompt was stabbing and I went with Stefano's eye!





	Whumptober: Stabbing

The sun was blearing hot, reflected off the sand and into his eyes. Even with his helmet, there wasn’t enough shade for him. He couldn’t wear sunglasses like the rest of them, it would mess with his lighting. He had to get the shots perfect. He was there for a job, not for art, but he could do nothing if it weren’t art as well. 

He was following the troops, being waved along when he fell behind, too distracted with the need to take the perfect shot to keep up. Sergeant Besson was with him, almost grabbing him by the arm, when they heard it. It was a high pitched whistle, growing louder. Besson screamed, abandoning him to dash to the side. Stefano just stood there, camera at the ready, shot after shot of the sergeant as he ran from the bomb that was falling on them. 

And then it hit, landing in the dust and the sand, bursting and shattering and tearing apart the body before him. It was a miasma of gore, ad eruption of entrails and bone. Agony tore through him like a flash of fire, a million pinpricks of white heat, his own body a target for all the asteroids in the night sky. 

The sun was blearing hot. But the blood pouring down his face, his arm, everything closest to the sergeant, was cool. The throbbing pulse in his eye was nothing. In front of him, was the snapshot, the perfectly framed death of a man, and it was everything. In that moment, nothing mattered more than the fact that he had caught it all in silver nitrate. 

They would say he was lucky to have survived the blast, that it only took what it had. He would say that he was lucky to have been born in that very moment. 

-

The moon was a crescent, cool and watchful, the perfect audience, a slit pupil in the massive sky. There was a scream in the night, the song that came along with the most beautiful artistry. Nothing worked, nothing gave him so much life, as that quick flash of fear. He captured her, again and again, Maria, chasing her through her own estate. He caught her with film. He caught her with his blade, a curved thing, more flashy than necessary, but perfect for his purpose. 

She tried to escape him, but he was no fool. He had photographed her many times in this place. He knew all of the exits. He knew how to lock all of the windows. They never thought to break them. It was as if, even with their terror, they wanted to be caught. 

And so he caught her. A flash of the camera in the darkness, the glean of his knife. Another scream as he spun her, her black gown shining with beads and blood. The knife entered her chest and the chase was done. He caught her again and again, filling the camera with her face, with the way that her life slipped down her breast into the fabric, with the way she struggled to breath. It was not an easy death, but it was, in it’s way, art. 

It was not perfect though, not in the slightest. He could not recapture the feeling of that moment in the desert. He would try again. He would try with another. He had an entire second life to keep trying, to try to line up the perfect shot. 

-

There was no moon. There was no sun. There was no time. There was nothing but him and a handful of others, though they were hard to account for. The people of the small town were monsters or prey. A few took him by surprise, the woman in white and those wearing bulletproof vests in a space where the threats didn’t come from a gun, but they left him alone, for the most part. One of them even tried to save him. He had thought that humorous. He had also proved just how useless the vest was by shooting the man in the temple with his own gun, at point blank range of his camera. 

This place, he could do so much here. He was stronger than he’d ever been before. He was inspired and what he wanted to create, he could, and what was more, his art took on a very much literal life of its own. Most importantly, he had a patron who adored him and could not wait to see his next piece. All he had to do was bring him the girl. 

And she had inspired him. Her screams as she ran through the town, more frightened of him than the then budding monsters, reminded him of simpler times. He knew where she was all the while, of course, but he allowed her to lose him, to gain traction against him, so that he could take in more of that fear, build it in her heart. 

She had almost escaped once, when he was overtaken by a sudden jolt of pain from the shrapnel still embedded in his eye. He had stumbled, released his grip on her, and she had sprinted towards the lumber yard. 

There were no celestial bodies in this town, not anymore, so he devised to make one himself, a massive eye to replace the one in his head. He would be his own audience and the audience of any other artists that came to this place. 

-

There was a light in the room, small but bright, and it blinded him. Even with his face buried in his hands, the smell of the leather gloves in his nose, he could not be rid of the brightness. It wasn’t just in the bulb but in his eye, the shrapnel digging painfully. It did so when the weather changed, or he was cold, or he stayed up too late, or he hadn’t had enough to drink, or any other manner of things. It shook him, the stabbing pain, hurting more now than it had in his making. 

A hand was on his shoulder and he would have jumped in surprise if he hadn’t been in so much pain. He wanted it done with, it all over with. The weight was good, grounding, but with how often he hurt, not just his eye but all of his old scars, it sometimes wasn’t enough. A kiss on his bared cheek helped as well. But both were gone soon enough and a voice, deep and tired but compassionate came to him like a tuneless old song that he only knew from memory. 

His hands were pulled away from his face and his gloves were gently removed. Kisses were placed on his knuckles and pills were placed on his palms. He knew that the pills would make him bleed but he was used to blood. It was why he wore so much red. He took the pills and the glass of water that was offered after. The light in the room was dimmer now, not from the original light but from a smaller lantern. Sebastian never went anywhere in the dark and Stefano had been surprised that he was most comfortable with a camp lantern. 

His hands cradled Stefano’s face and more soft words were spoken. He wanted to hear them. He wanted to believe them. For the moment, all he could do was trust their sincere tone. 

A new weight, a warm one, was draped around his shoulders. Sebastian was sitting on the bed with him, pulling the blanket close around him. His hair was brushed away from his eye and he wanted to pull away, he wanted to hide it. He was used to Sebastian, he was used to being seen, but with this, in this moment, when all his eye did was cause him pain, he didn’t want it seen. He wanted it gone. Perhaps, next time Sebastian and Lily left the house, he would take a knife from the pantry and pry it out. 

Kisses were being pressed to his cheek though, to the skin around the wound, to the scars that littered his flesh. Sebastian knew them, all of them, and had never balked. The cold of his lips were refreshing and the tickle of his stubble was a lovely distraction. The pain would take a long time to settle but this was nice, a slight reprieve, and it was something that he could hold onto. 

He wished he could capture it on silver nitrate as well.


End file.
